


Back Alleys

by honey_and_milk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Racism, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2373227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_and_milk/pseuds/honey_and_milk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course it figures that the most familiar thing he's seen in this new world is a one-sided fight in a back alley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brick Walls and Black Boots

**Author's Note:**

> No beta on this story, as I'm not quite sure where it's going yet. Tags, warnings, and ratings are subject to change in future chapters.

               Brooklyn at night was far brighter now than it had been in the 1940s.  Steve still wasn’t used to the way it could be well past midnight and yet be light enough to navigate with ease.  He’d had to buy blackout curtains for the apartment he’d occupied for less than a month, and even then it seemed too bright, too loud to sleep.  The Brooklyn nightlife had changed too, he noticed as he walked in the crisp night air, and he supposed that wouldn’t just be Brooklyn.  Long gone were the dance halls Bucky had loved and dragged Steve to whenever he could, replaced with clubs full of flashing lights and pulsing music that sounded nothing like anything Steve recognized.  He’s a block away from a smattering of those clubs before he hears something familiar, echoing out of a nearby alley. 

               “Hey!” he shouts as he runs into the alley to see three goons kicking at a pair of smaller men curled on the ground together in a protective position.  No one reacted to his voice, possibly couldn’t hear him over the grunted insults of the men delivering the beating or the angry shouts and groans of the ones on the ground. 

               “Hey,” said Steve again, clamping his hand on the shoulder of one of the attackers, and pulling him bodily away from his quarry. 

               “What the _fuck_ ,” the man growled, slapping Steve’s hand away.  His companions turned their attention onto Steve.  “Mind your own _fucking business._ ” 

               “Walk away.  Now.”  Steve used his best Captain America voice, levelling his gaze at the man. 

               “Don’t think so,” said the man with a sneer, throwing a punch at Steve’s head. Steve caught it, used the man’s momentum to throw him well clear of the alley.  The other two rushed him, but Steve countered with a quick fist and elbow, leaving them both clutching bleeding faces. 

               “One more chance.  Walk away,” Steve said again, and the smartest of the trio moved one hand from his broken nose to grab his friend’s arm and scuttle them both out of the alley.  Steve peered out from between the buildings long enough to make sure that all three were in retreat, as the redheaded man on the ground helped the other to a sitting position, shouting “Yeah, fuck off!” and wiping blood from his lip. 

               “Are you okay?” Steve asked, crouching beside the men. 

               “Yeah,” the black man who looked in worse condition said with a hiss.  “Don’t think anything’s broken.” 

               “You’re gonna want to ice those bruises.  Both of you,” he said, recognizing that they’d be purple all over come morning.  “Can you stand?” 

               “Yeah,” the man said, pushing himself to his feet as Steve and his friend supported him.  “Uh.  Thanks for the save.  Those guys…” he trailed off.

               “Those fucking assholes were trying to kill us,” the redhead said, blood still seeping from an eyebrow piercing knocked well out of place, his voice filled with a barely contained rage.  “Fuck.  Babe, are you really okay?  Do you need a hospital? Do you—“ his voice faltered, the rage shifting into a panicked sort of concern as he cupped his friend’s face, placed tender kisses along his brow, and Steve realized why these two had been targeted, recalling the insults the attackers had spewed.  Some new terms now, but still so familiar.  He caught a bitter laugh in his throat before it could escape, because in some ways this new world had seemed so much brighter, even if he wasn’t sure he belonged in it.  Of course the familiar parts would be the worst ones, all fights and back alley scrapes. 

               “I’m okay.  I’m okay, I promise,” the taller man whispered, catching the redhead’s face and forcing his eyes to his, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.  “I promise.  Are you?”

               “Yeah.  Yeah,” he pulled away, ran a hand through his hair.  “They didn’t get me as bad.” 

The situation felt intimate and at the same time reminded Steve of one too many fights of his own.  He didn’t belong here anymore, with the threat gone.  He wasn’t their friend, they didn’t need his arm over their shoulders and his reassuring words.  They had each other.

               “I should go,” he said awkwardly.  “You—be careful,” he said softly.  They were so open with their love, and Steve knew how dangerous that could be.  No one had talked about it when some of the fellas down in the neighbourhood came around with black eyes and bruised ribs, or didn’t come back around at all, but everyone knew when there’d been a raid on one of the queer bars, or when some of the boys from uptown came down to pick on the fairies.  Steve still remembered finding Arnie Roth half unconscious by the docks, remembered how it took him and Bucky both to drag him back to their place, how they’d patched him up.  He remembered too how ashamed Arnie had looked the next morning, like he was somehow to blame for getting the shit kicked outta him.  How he wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes for weeks, even though they’d known each other since they were kids. 

               “Hey, no,” said the redhead, catching Steve’s arm.  “Stick around, I’m gonna call the cops.  That was a fucking hate crime, those guys are gonna go to jail.” 

               Steve’s brows knit together, and he looked between the two men.  “Is that… safe?” he asked.  If the officers figured out the truth about these two, what would they do? 

               “Christ, you _are_ him, aren’t you?” came the other man’s voice.  “You’re Steve Rogers.  Captain America.”  The redhead’s eyes snapped up from his phone, interrupted in his dialling, to stare at Steve’s face.

               “Uh,” said Steve.  “Yeah.” 

               “Holy _shit_ ,” said the rehead. 

               “How long have you been,” the black man hesitated, searching for a word.  “…awake?” 

               “About a month,” said Steve, caught off-guard by the softness in the man’s voice.  It had been only two weeks since Loki’s attack and he’d been revealed to the world. 

               “Haven’t had much time to adjust yet, have you?” he continued, as though voicing Steve’s thoughts.  It startled a bitter laugh out of Steve. 

               “No, not – no.” 

               “It’s not illegal anymore.  Homosexuality,” he continued, and Steve was suddenly aware that the redhead was eyeing him warily while they spoke, as though he might be a threat after all. 

               “Oh,” said Steve, because he didn’t know what else to say.  “I didn’t know.  No one told me.”  He knew things had changed, it was obvious.  Nick Fury alone was proof of that, and there were so many women at SHIELD.  But it had never occurred to that this would have changed too.  Maybe he would have noticed if he’d spent less time in his apartment grieving, but everything else had been so obvious, he wondered why no one had mentioned it to him.  But maybe he knew why, because some people at SHIELD had seemed wary of him, or tested him, like they expected him to have “old-fashioned” ideas about them. 

               “Don’t get me wrong, cops still don’t always like queers.  Or black people for that matter.  But I think if we had Captain America as a witness, they’d pay attention.”  The men both watched him, and Steve knew he was being tested, again. 

               “I’d love to see those guys in jail,” said Steve definitively.  “I got a good look at their faces, I can probably do a sketch for the police.”  The tension in the air dissipated and the black man smiled like he was proud of Steve, then winced as it split his lip.  The redhead pressed a button on his phone and was speaking to an emergency operator in seconds.

               “I’m Marcus,” the black man said.  “That’s Desmond.”

               “Steve,” said Steve, extending his hand. 

               “Yeah, I know,” said Marcus, but shook Steve’s hand anyway.  “I’m really glad you’re not an asshole, Cap,” he added. 

               “Hey, I try,” Steve shrugged. 

               “It just means a lot.  Lotta right wing types bring up the ‘What would Captain America think?’ line when they’re trying to when they’re trying to say how sinful and dirty us fucking queers are.”  Steve frowned at Marcus’ words, angry and heartsick for how much hatred there still was in the world. 

               “Captain America would think it was great.  Some of my friends might have had better lives if…” he shook his head, trailed off with a small, sad smile.  “You know, I would have thought they’d stop using me for propaganda after I died.”

               “You kidding?  When you’re dead you don’t have any of those pesky opinions getting in the way.”

               “Cops are gonna be here in a few minutes,” Desmond interrupted, sliding his phone back into his pocket.  “Paramedics too.”  Marcus looked like he was going to argue, but Desmond gave him a look and Marcus closed his mouth.  It was again so strikingly familiar, so reminiscent of back alleys 70 years past and Bucky fixing him with that same look while he tasted coppery blood in his own mouth that Steve couldn’t hold back a frown as the three of them waited to hear sirens.


	2. In the Broadsheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn't enjoy talking to the press any more now than he had during the war.

The headline caught Steve’s eye as the man filled the newspaper dispenser in the early dawn light of the next day.  He halted in his run, pulling a few dollars ( _dollars_ , he didn’t think he was ever going to get used to prices now) from the pocket of his sweats.

               “Excuse me, could I get one of those?”  The man made an affirmative grunt, looking up from his task only enough to hand Steve the paper and take the mess of bills. 

 _Captain America Bashes Gay Bashers_ was splashed across the front page, and it crossed Steve’s mind that it must be a slow news day.  Taking a seat on a nearby park bench, he scanned the story.  The article had only a short of description of the crime, and a small reproduction of the sketches that Steve had done for the police department the night before - miniscule in comparison to the large photograph of his face, looking very grim and dramatic.  He recognized it from a publicity shoot he’d done at SHIELD’s request just after the battle of New York.  The bulk of the article was given over to speculation as to what he might think of the treatment of homosexuality today.    

Steve sighed heavily, and deposited the paper into a recycling bin.  It was going to be a long damn day, apparently, and he wanted none of it.  He stretched out his run for longer than he normally would, dreading the return to his apartment and phone.  

The sun was well into the sky by the time Steve keyed open his door, and sure enough, the little red light on his phone indicated he had a message.  Or more likely, several.  His mobile, which he had forgotten on the counter that morning, showed three missed calls and several texts.  He ignored the messages on his landline, as they were unlikely to be from anyone he knew – almost everyone seemed to prefer calling the cell.  And he wouldn’t have been surprised if some enterprising press agent had found the landline number; enough telemarketers certainly had.  A quick glance through his texts and missed calls showed that they were all from SHIELD numbers, though he didn’t have names associated with all of them.  Two messages were from Fury, one telling him not to speak to anyone before he spoke to SHIELD’s PR person, and another that read

_The point of a mobile phone is that it is mobile, and you can take it with you._

Steve smiled at that, could practically hear the irritation in the Director’s voice.  The other texts were from Olivia Warren, the media relations person he and the other Avengers had met with shortly after he’d debuted in the new world.  He wasn’t officially SHIELD, but Fury had asked him to consider a position in their ranks, and he’d said he would think about it.  Clearly, SHIELD still saw him as their responsibility.  He could be irritated at orders from an organization he didn’t work for, but until he made a decision one way or another, keeping on Fury’s good side was just the smart thing to do.  Besides, he liked the man.

 _Sorry Sir.  I’m old,_ he replied to Fury, following up with _I’ll call Olivia right away._

His phone pinged almost immediately.

 _Don’t give me that I’m old crap you’re 27 and I’m not Tony._  

Steve grinned, flipping through his contacts to Olivia’s number.  He didn’t enjoy talking to the press any more now than he had during the war, and he was grateful for people like Olivia who handled the details of it so he didn’t have to.  Still, his fingers hesitated over the call button.  Instead, he grabbed the scrap of paper with Marcus’ handwriting he’d left on the counter last night, dialling the number there.  Two rings, and then Marcus’ voice came through.

               “Hello?”  He sounded odd, like his lips had swollen further than they had been last night. 

               “Marcus?  It’s Steve.  I was just wondering how you and Desmond were doing today.”  

               “Everything fuckin’ hurts,” Marcus grumbled.  “I feel like a walking bruise.  I swear it hurts more now than it did last night.”  It was a feeling Steve knew well, but somehow he didn’t think Marcus would appreciate that sort of sympathy.  If it were _him_ with a busted face and bruised ribs, Bucky would have told him to stop being such a damn idiot and keep his neck out trouble in the future, but that wasn’t the sort of thing you could say to someone who was practically a stranger.  And it wasn’t as though Marcus and Desmond had provoked the attack.  Steve floundered for words.

               “Take it easy, okay?” Steve offered finally, and winced at how foolish he sounded.  

               “Sure,” said Marcus.  

               “Look,” Steve said carefully.  “I think I’m going to have to make some kind of statement about this today.  Is there anything you want me to say?  Or don’t want me to say?”  And there it was, the reason he didn’t want to call Olivia.  This wasn’t about him, really had nothing to do with him at all, and yet it was going to be his voice and his face plastered all over the story.  Hell, the story itself, the desire to find the attackers, was probably going to be buried under opinions on his opinions, if the paper that morning had been any indication.

               There was a long silence, and for a second Steve thought he’d lost the connection.  But then Marcus spoke again.

               “Maybe leave our names out it.  Desmond cut ties with his family a few years ago and publicity would be-- we’d like to avoid it.”

               “Sure,” said Steve.  “Of course.”  He didn’t ask, didn’t have any right to know about the hard parts of their lives, but he couldn’t help but wonder about the story behind the estrangement, if fathers still disowned their children for being queer, or if it were something else altogether.  Families, he knew, could be messy business in innumerable ways.  

               “And maybe let them know you don’t have a problem with people like us?”  Marcus asked, more tentatively.  

               “Sure,” Steve said again.  “Hey, you can call me, you know.  If you need anything.”

               “I’ll keep that in mind Cap,” said Marcus, but there was something in his tone that made Steve think he wouldn’t hear from him again.  

               “Give Desmond my regards,” said Steve.  

               “Alright,” replied Marcus.  “Bye.”

               “Bye,” said Steve, and the call was over.  The silence of Steve’s apartment was suddenly oppressive in the way it hadn’t been since his first few days out of the ice.  He didn’t know Marcus and Desmond at all, it wasn’t fair to expect friendship.  He _hadn’t_ been expecting friendship, but they’d reminded him too much of friends who were long dead.  Or maybe it had just been the way he’d met them.  Whatever the reason, the knowledge that he probably wouldn’t speak to either of them again didn’t help the now familiar gut-wrenching emptiness in his chest. 

               He shook his head quickly, banishing the wistfulness of his thoughts and punching Olivia’s number into his phone.  

               “Oh thank god,” said Olivia when she answered the phone.  

               “I just got home,” Steve said by way of explanation.  

               “Bring your phone next time.  Can you come in right away?”  Steve appreciated how no nonsense Olivia was, the complete opposite of the flashy types who he’d done the war bonds tours with.  It was refreshing.  

               “I probably need a shower,” Steve said.  “I was running.”  

               “Alright, we’ll have a car at your place in 15,” she said.  “See you soon.”  


	3. Interlude – Dance Halls and Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve didn't need to ask what Arnie's fight with his father was about. He didn't need to ask why the bruising around his eye was darker than it had been, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is longer than the previous two combined. Oops.

**1938**

The knock was tentative, so much so that Steve wasn’t sure he’d heard it at all.  But it came again, a little louder, and Steve wiped the ink from his fingers as he stood up from the drafting table.  The comic pages were nearly finished, but the interruption wasn’t exactly welcome.  Steve had to have them to the offices by the end of the work day, and that was a good hour’s walk from the apartment.  He was hopeful that if Jim liked his work on this project, he could get a desk and a steady cheque from the studio instead of the occasional freelancing he had now.  It was unusual to have visitors at this hour of the day – most of the neighbourhood boys were still at work and none of the women ever came by until Bucky was back from the docks.  Salesmen weren’t common in the area either – most were sharp enough to realize that no one here was going to have the dough for their overpriced trinkets. 

               “Arnie,” Steve said as he opened the door to see his friend on the porch, hat literally in hand and a battered valise at his feet.  He still looked rough from the beating he’d taken two nights ago, when he’d stayed at Steve and Bucky’s and let them patch him up.  If anything, the bruising around his eye looked angrier today than it had then. 

               “Hi Steve,” he said, shuffling his feet in a very un-Arnie-like fashion, his eyes flitting anywhere but Steve’s.  “I’ll get right to it, I guess.  My pop kicked me out, and I was hoping I could stay with you and Bucky.  Just for a bit.  Just ‘til I can find my own place.”  The words rushed out of him in a breath, and Steve didn’t need to ask why his father had kicked him out.  Probably didn’t need to ask why his black eye was darker today either. 

               “Of course,” said Steve, standing to the side of the doorframe and ushering Arnie in.  “Whatever you need, Arn.”  The relief on Arnie’s face was almost painful to see, and Steve felt a rush of anger wash through him – towards Arnie’s father, towards the guys who beat him, towards… towards everything.  But anger wasn’t what Arnie needed right now, so Steve clamped it down while Arnie deposited his things by the battered old couch Steve had inherited from his mother. 

               “Bucky won’t be back for a couple hours,” Steve said.  “And I know I’m being a bad host, but I’ve got a deadline today, so I’m gonna have to keep working.  There’s beer in the icebox though, if you want.  And I can talk while I work.  Or listen,” he offered, taking his seat and picking up his brushes again. 

               “I don’t wanna be a nuisance,” Arnie muttered. 

               “It’s usually Bucky here, got used to working around someone who can’t shut the hell up,” Steve shrugged and startled a laugh out of his friend. 

               “You shouldn’t knock it, Rogers.  It’s that silver tongue of his that gets him all the dames.”  Steve laughed lightly, and Arnie took him up on the offer of beer. 

               “Yeah, I’m sure that’s the only reason they fancy him,” he snorted.  “Nothing to do with dancing or his,” Steve gestured vaguely. “…face.”  Arnie laughed again, more like the full-bodied laugh that Steve was used to from him, and even though he stopped with a hiss and a hand to his ribs, Steve was still glad to hear that sound again.  They sat in amiable silence for a while, Steve’s brush inking the pencils he’d laid down earlier, Arnie sipping on his beer, probably glad to just rest his bones, to not have to try for human interaction. 

               “You know your dad’s an ass,” Steve said without looking up.  He could feel Arnie tense across the room, even if he couldn’t see it.  But then Arnie released a breath, and the tension seemed to ease. 

               “He’s got reasons,” Arnie said with resigned bitterness. 

               “I don’t think so,” said Steve immediately, still not looking up.  Whatever else, he wanted Arnie to know that he didn’t think any less of him.  Arnie didn’t say anything for a long time, and Steve just kept inking, though he could feel his friend’s eyes on him. 

               “Okay,” Arnie said finally. 

               “Okay,” agreed Steve, a little smile on his lips.  “So,” he began conversationally between brushstrokes.  “You got a fella?”  Arnie spluttered on his beer, making a surprised choking noise that Steve couldn’t help laughing at. 

               “ _Christ, Rogers!”_   Arnie said, wiping beer from his lips and shirt.  “Y’don’t just _talk_ about it like that.” 

               “Well do ya?” Steve pressed, smiling. 

               “Nah,” said Arnie after a moment’s hesitation.  “It ain’t the same as with dames.  You can’t just…” he trailed off and gave Steve a sad half smile.  “I mean, I’ve gone with fellas.  But it’s not the same,” he said again, shrugging.  Steve knew he was right.  There wasn’t a happy ending for people who tried to act like it was the same. 

               “M’sorry,” Steve muttered, not sure if he was apologizing for bringing it up or for the happiness that Arnie deserved and might never get.  He finished inking the last panel and pushed away from the desk to let it dry. 

               “Nothing to be done Rogers,” Arnie said with a lightness that looked like it hurt him. 

               “There should be,” Steve argued, his voice low and dangerous.  Arnie looked up at him from the couch, regarding him with an expression that wavered between perplexed and touched, holding Steve’s gaze for a long moment before bursting out laughing.

               “Hell, Barnes isn’t kidding when he says you’re a firecracker.  Y’know he once told me you’d take on a whole army barehanded if you thought you were doing the right thing?  Didn’t really believe him then, but I think I do now.”  Steve flushed to the tips of his ears, his own body’s reaction only making him angrier about the whole situation.  “But you’d have to be an idiot to actually do that,” Arnie said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, and Steve knew that was his cue to drop the conversation, or at least change its course. 

               “Dammit Bucky,” he muttered, wondering just what else his best friend said about him when he and Arnie went out to take girls dancing.  He wondered abstractly if Bucky had always known that Arnie hadn’t enjoyed those evenings out as much as Bucky had – Steve certainly hadn’t had any idea.  Arnie was nearly as much of a ladies’ man as Bucky.  _Though_ , a quiet part of his brain reasoned, _he might like girls too.  It didn’t have to be one or the other._   Steve scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to will away some of the redness there.

               “You got ink on your forehead,” Arnie observed when Steve pulled his hand away. 

               “Ah hell,” said Steve.   “I gotta clean myself up, and then I gotta run those pages to Jim.  You gonna be okay on your own?”

               “Yeah Steve,” Arnie said with a bemused expression.  “Listen, I’ll make dinner while you’re out, make up for showing up uninvited like this.  I make a mean stew.”  

Steve grinned and went to wash the ink off his face and fingers. 

\---

The trip took longer than he had anticipated, but for good reasons, so Steve didn’t mind.  Jim had loved his work on the latest pages, and though there still wasn’t a regular opening for him at the studio, Jim bumped him onto two new books – a romance and a detective story – that paid a little better than the children’s book he was currently working on.  It meant more hours hunched over his drafting table, but it also meant a lot more cash in hand.  Besides, Steve was excited for the heavy inking and crisp chunks of black that the detective story called for. There was still hope of a regular position down the line, and for now he had money in his pocket and work for the next few months. 

He wasn’t surprised to find Bucky already home when he got there, chatting with Arnie over hot bowls of stew at the kitchen table. 

               “You’re late,” Bucky said.  “And Arnie’s a better cook.  Thinkin’ of replacing you, Rogers.” 

               “Har har,” said Steve, but grinned and couldn’t keep his good news to himself.  “Jim put me on two more books.”  Bucky smiled, warm and indulgent, and Steve felt a little swell of pride rush through him. 

               “’Cause you’re good at your job, Stevie.  You gonna treat me to a night at the movies now that you’re flush with cash?” he teased. 

               “We’ll see,” taunted Steve, helping himself to a bowl of stew, and taking a taste.  “Wow, this is _really_ good, Arnie.”

               “It’s my grandma’s secret recipe,” he said, dipping bread into his own bowl. 

               “Think you’re gonna be back at work Monday?” Bucky asked Arnie.  “We’ve been shorthanded without you.” 

               “Yeah, probably.  Weekend should give the ribs a bit of time to heal.  Might even be able to find a place tomorrow.  Got enough saved for a few month’s rent, I think.  What-“ he hesitated, his hands tearing at a piece of bread nervously.  “What do the guys know about…?” 

               “I told ‘em you were mugged,” Bucky said, waving a hand as if he could dispel Arnie’s fears that easily and finishing off his stew. 

               “Good,” Arnie said softly, eyes downcast as he dipped his bread.  “Good.”  There was a silence that threatened to become awkward, but Bucky just cocked his head and gave Arnie a small smile, tinged with a protective warmth that Steve recognized all too well.  That was Bucky all over – if Steve couldn’t back away from a fight, couldn’t help the anger over Arnie’s situation, then Bucky couldn’t help but try to heal his friends, to keep them safe, to let them know they weren’t alone.  He’d done it for Steve often enough.  Steve wished he had Bucky’s knack for that. 

               “C’mon, Arnie.  You’re the sorta guy all the girls dream about, everyone knows that.  No one’s gonna think otherwise cause you got a black eye and some bruised ribs, not when you’ve been winning their dames out from under them for years,” Bucky said softly.  Arnie rolled his eyes slightly in an ‘i-guess-so’ gesture, but his hunched posture didn’t change.  “Besides,” Bucky added with a playful wink “anyone who suspects otherwise probably has their eye on you for an altogether different reason, you handsome dog.” 

That startled a bark of laughter from Arnie.  “Jesus, both of you got no damn idea how to keep your mouth shut about things that ain’t not to be talked about, do ya?”  Bucky and Steve gave matching shrugs.   “You’re worse than me, you know that?  And I got beaten black and blue and kicked outta my home for my trouble.” 

               “Hey,” said Bucky, reaching across the table to put a calming hand on Arnie’s forearm.  “Your secret _is_ safe with us.”       

               "But it doesn’t need to be a secret _from_ us,” Steve added.  Arnie didn’t raise his eyes, but his lips curled into a gentle smile.

               “How’d I ever get to be pals with such a pair of idiots?”

               “Shaddup,” said Steve.   

               “Alright, I’ll take care of these,” Bucky said, collecting everyone’s dishes.  “You two make yourselves pretty and put on your dancing shoes – Stevie’s taking us out tonight.”

               “What?!” asked Steve, incredulous. 

               “You got paid today, right?  We got more than enough for rent and groceries right now, and we could all use something to get our mind off things.  Nothin’ better for it than drinking and dancing.” 

               “I can’t dance, Buck,” Steve protested half-heartedly. 

               “But you can’t tell me you don’t like to watch,” Bucky grinned.  “I know, I’ve seen your sketchbooks.”  Steve’s eyes snapped to Bucky’s.  It wasn’t that he’d drawn anything incriminating, not exactly, but…

               “You snoop,” he accused.  Bucky shrugged.

               “Hey, if you’re gonna draw dames dancing as often as you do, the least you could do is show me.”  Steve gave a little sigh that was half relief, half frustration.  Of course Bucky would only see that Steve was drawing the girls, with their swirling dresses and pretty makeup.  He wondered if Bucky even recognized himself in their partners, the lines sketchy and quick as they always were when he tried to capture the way Bucky moved, the way the girls moved around him.  He wondered if Bucky would think it mattered if he did. 

               “Still shouldn’t go through my things,” Steve grumbled. 

               “What, you hiding blue comics from me or something Rogers?  Cause I’ve probably seen—“

               “Listen Bucky,” Arnie interrupted.  “I don’t think the dames are gonna wanna dance with me looking like this.  And I’m not—“

               “Who said anything about dames?” Bucky looked over Steve’s shoulder to Arnie.  “There’s enough of us that we shouldn’t run into any trouble if we go to Sands Street.”  There was a beat of silence when Steve realized that yes, Arnie needed this.  Needed to know that even if it wasn’t always safe, they had his back.  Needed to have a chance to just relax and not have to hide.  “Now go on, both of you.  You look like a pair of tramps.” 

There was no room for argument. 

\---

Bucky’s judgement had proved sound, even if Arnie had been fidgety and hyper vigilant as he led Steve and Bucky to a grey, non-descript building that belied the riot of colour and movement within.  Steve had never been to a queer club before, and somehow he hadn’t imagined there would still be such an array of colourful dresses, nor had he imagined the sense of sheer levity that permeated the crowd.  He supposed, if he thought about it, that he would have thought there would be some sense of the clandestine, the same way that Arnie guarded himself so carefully, or the way that even if everyone knew what went on in the Navy yards after dark, they all pretended not to.  It wasn’t like that at all – instead, it was open, free.  It was beautiful. 

               “Wow,” Steve had said with a startled laugh.  Bucky clapped a hand on his shoulder and grinned at him. 

               “You gonna buy us those drinks, Stevie?” he asked, and steered him and Arnie towards the bar, not waiting for Steve’s answer.  It turned out the bartender knew Arnie, and when he saw his shiner and the careful way he held his ribs as he sat, he refused to let Steve pay for anything Arnie had. 

               “We’ve all been there,” he said gruffly to Arnie as he put a glass of bourbon in front of him, not needing to ask what he drank. 

               “Thanks Hank,” Arnie said, taking the drink gratefully.  Hank was hardly the only one who recognized Arnie, and they hadn’t been seated long before a small crowd of friends descended on him, lamenting over his injuries, and insisting he join them on the dance floor.  His protests were cursory at best, and when he finally allowed himself to be pulled onto the dance floor, he was wearing the first genuine smile Steve had seen since he was attacked.  Idly, Steve wondered how he found the time to become a regular here when he was out at the dance halls with Bucky every other night. 

               “Guess it’s not just girls he’s popular with,” Bucky chuckled softly beside Steve, breath ghosting over the drink he held to his lips. 

               “Guess not,” Steve agreed, and there didn’t seem to be anything else to say.  They drank in silence for a time, watching Arnie and the others on the dance floor, until Bucky put his empty glass down with an audible clink. 

               “That’s about as long as I can keep still,” Bucky mused.  “I’m gonna dance.” 

               “But,” Steve began.  Bucky wrapped his arm over Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight side-hug.

               “It’s just _dancing_ , Stevie,” he said into his ear, then pressed a quick kiss to Steve’s temple before grinning and leaving him for the music.  For a moment, Steve couldn’t feel anything but the spot where Bucky had pressed his lips, and he sat rigid on the bar stool.   

He wanted…

But no, Bucky hadn’t meant anything by it, that was obvious.  A friendly kiss, maybe a way to blend in with the crowd, that was all.  And Bucky, Bucky hadn’t even noticed the way Steve reacted, he’d already found a partner – of course he had, why would his luck be any worse with the fellas than with the dames? – and was moving with the music by the time Steve came back to himself.  He let himself watch, let himself store moments away in his mind so he could draw them later. 

Bucky was a gorgeous dancer, he always had been.  It seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing – but there was something different about his dancing this evening, and it took Steve a moment to realize that he was letting himself be led, a huge grin on his face as he twirled and spun, where normally there would be a girl spinning around him in the same fashion.  It was stunning, and Steve couldn’t tear his eyes away until Arnie clattered into the seat beside him. 

               “It’s hard to dance,” Arnie hissed “When your ribs hurt this much.”  Steve only laughed, because Arnie didn’t look like he regretted it even for a second. 

               “Think Hank will actually let me buy you a drink this time?” Steve asked, suddenly noticing that his own glass was empty. 

               “You can always try,” shrugged Arnie, and Steve ordered them another round. 

               “You have a lot of friends here,” Steve observed, and winced when Arnie’s face clouded at his words. 

               “Ah.  Yeah.  I hope you don’t mind me sleeping at your place instead’ve any of theirs.  It’s just—you and Bucky already knew, but you’re…”  he trailed off, bringing his drink to his lips with a half-hearted shrug.  _You’re respectable_ , Steve could hear the words even though Arnie didn’t say them.  _You’re not queer.  If I stay with you instead of them, I can keep my mask._   Steve nodded.  He didn’t tell Arnie that he wasn’t so sure he had the right of it, not with regard to him anyway. 

               “Thank you,” said Arnie suddenly, heartfelt and gentle, his voice serious in a way that Steve had never heard from Arnie, and it killed Steve to know that he was so grateful for something so basic as being a good friend. 

               “Sure,” said Steve, desperately wanting not to think about Arnie’s gratitude, about the way that maybe Arnie’s other friends wouldn’t have done the same for him.  “What’re friends for?”  He was saved from the conversation as Bucky’s arm crashed down over his shoulder.

               “Steve!” he declared, and Steve turned to his grinning face.  Bucky’s hair was a dishevelled mess, and his breathing was erratic from the exertion of the dancing. 

               “You look like you’re having fun,” Steve said, swallowing around a sudden tightness in his throat. 

               “I _am_ ,” Bucky agreed, then peered over Steve’s shoulder at their friend.  “Arnie I cannot _believe_ you were keeping this place a secret.  I don’t even have to pay for my own drinks,” Bucky declared, raising a glass Steve hadn’t bought for him and winking at a guy farther down the bar, who he’d been dancing with earlier. 

               “ _Bucky,_ ” Steve hissed.  It was oddly jarring to see Bucky flirting here the same way he did with girls – at least when he flirted with girls, it didn’t twist something in Steve’s gut, because he _knew_ Bucky would never act that way with men, with him.  Seeing how wrong he was about that hurt, even if it was an act.  _Especially_ if it was an act. 

               “Don’t worry,” said Bucky with an easy grin.  “He knows I‘m not going home with him.  Told him I already had a fella.”

               “Bucky!” Steve said again as Bucky pulled him close and kissed the top of his head playfully.  “I’m not your _fella_ ,” he hissed quietly, annoyed because he knew he was blushing. 

               “Just _pretend_ Stevie,” Bucky mumbled into his hair.  “Come on, I’m a good catch.”  Steve only sighed, unwilling to tell Bucky how much _pretending_ , allowing himself to even _think_ of the possibility was something he didn’t want, because it would only hurt.  His gaze rolled to Arnie, seeking commiseration; _can you believe this jerk?_   But when his eyes found Arnie’s, his face was averted like he knew something he shouldn’t and _shit, shit, he knew, he knew_.  Steve froze like a trapped animal, Arnie pointedly looking anywhere but at Steve, like he wanted to be able to pretend he didn’t _know_ , Bucky still nuzzling at his hair.  The band started a slow song, and Bucky propped his chin on Steve’s head, fingers drumming to the music. 

               “Hey, dance with me,” he said suddenly, pulling Steve off of his stool. 

               “I can’t dance,” Steve said reflexively, pulling himself out of his panicked stillness.  His heart hammered in his chest, and his eyes flitted away from Bucky’s – he didn’t want to see whatever was in them.  Whatever _wasn’t_ in them. 

               “It’s a slow song, you barely need to move,” Bucky assured him.  Then softer, “Come on, Steve.  What kinda guy brings his fella and doesn’t dance with him all night?”

               “Not your fella,” Steve said again, quiet this time, and he hoped Bucky didn’t catch the wistfulness in his voice.

               “Can’t ya pretend, Stevie?  For me, for tonight?  Come on, it don’t have to mean anything.”  Bucky held his shoulders and peered at him, until Steve relented and finally met his eyes, friendly and blue and pleading.  Bucky rubbed Steve’s collarbone through his shirt absently with one thumb, and Steve didn’t have the heart to ruin Bucky’s fun, to put an end to his game. 

               “Okay, Buck,” he said, and Bucky grinned and pulled him out onto the dance floor. 

Steve’s movements were awkward and stilted, but he let Bucky smooth them over by pressing him close and guiding him as they swayed to the jazz.  This close to his friend, Steve could only breathe him in, rest his head on his chest and _pretend_ , just like Bucky asked. 

               "That’s the spirit,” Bucky whispered, just low enough for Steve to hear, stroking his back slightly.  “Don’t have to mean anything.”  He was wrong. 

It meant everything.


	4. Not About Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was harder than he thought, but Steve wasn’t the sort to back down from something once he’d made the decision to do it

               “Put this on,” Olivia greeted Steve, shoving a navy-coloured suit at his chest.  Olivia didn’t bat an eyelash as he started undoing the shirt he was wearing so that he could follow her instructions.  If there was one thing that the war bonds tours had taught Steve, it was that no one who worked in show business – even the media side of show business – had any modesty when it came costume changes. 

               “Is that tie really necessary?” he asked, eyeing the red, white and blue monstrosity that came with the otherwise attractive suit. 

               “Like it or not, Rogers, you’ve got a brand,” Olivia said simply, and Steve decided the argument wasn’t one worth trying to win.  “I’m going to be blunt,” she began, her voice all business.

               “Are you ever not?” Steve asked lightly, and the short, dark woman just glared at him.

               “How do you feel about homosexuals?” she asked, and inwardly Steve agreed that yes, that was pretty blunt. 

               “Uh,” Steve said, not exactly sure how the question was supposed to be answered in the swift manner Olivia seemed to be requesting.  “Fine?”  Olivia pursed her lips, but her expression seemed softer. 

               “So if I told you I was engaged to another woman, that wouldn’t bother you?” 

Steve stilled, midway through buckling the soft leather belt that had come with the outfit Olivia provided. 

               “ _Engaged?_ ” he asked, then immediately backtracked when he saw a harshness flash in Olivia’s eyes.  “I’m sorry, I mean – congratulations.  It’s just—I didn’t even know it was legal until last night.  It’s good,” Steve offered lamely, returning to his belt buckle.  He could feel Olivia’s eyes on him, regarding him carefully, before breathing something that sounded like a sigh of relief. 

               “Alright,” she said.  “Good.  I’m guessing you don’t know much about the LGBTQIA movement?”

               “Nope,” said Steve with a light smile, looking up as he went through the motions of fastening his tie.  “I don’t even know what those letters stand for.” 

               “Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Intersex and Asexual,” Olivia rattled off absently.  “Don’t sweat it, there are lots of people who don’t know, and they don’t have the excuse of being born in 1918.  Your conference is in fifteen minutes, so I can only give you the Cliff’s notes for now – things have improved a great deal for queer people since World War II, but a lot of people aren’t happy about it and there’s a long way to go yet.”

               “Yeah, I got that impression,” Steve said darkly, buttoning up the suit jacket and thinking of Marcus and Desmond’s bloody faces from the previous evening.  Olivia’s face slipped into an expression that he couldn’t quite decipher, but was maybe on the cusp of pleased disbelief. 

               “I’m not just talking about assholes who assault people, I’m talking about entire sections of the United States government and populace.” She paused then, waited for Steve to finish dressing and look in her direction.  She was chewing her lip, like she didn’t want to say what came next. 

               “Olivia?” Steve prompted. 

               “SHIELD is a government organization,” she began, and already Steve didn’t like where this was going.  “And while you’re not technically representing SHIELD and so you have a bit more freedom, SHIELD can’t be seen to be taking sides in this.  You’re going to get questions asking you to endorse or renounce queer people, marriage equality and such, and SHIELD would appreciate it if you could keep your answers as neutral as possible.  Keep it about the assault, not any personal opinions you might have.” 

Steve searched her eyes, and sighed heavily.  _Politics._   God, he thought he’d gotten out of this bullshit when he’d stopped socking Adolph in the jaw, but apparently not.  There was an added level of frustration here and now, because he felt blindsided and uninformed on the topic.  Not that that was exactly an uncommon feeling for him these days, but familiarity made it no more pleasant.    

               “Off the record, Steve,” Olivia said carefully.  “I’d love if you took sides, since you seem to be on ours.  Which, I’m going to confess, is surprising.” 

               “You can’t believe everything you hear about me in the news,” Steve said with a shrug, recalling what Marcus had said about the words and sentiments that had been put in his mouth after his death.  “I’ll stick to talking only about the assault,” he promised.  “But only because that’s what this should be about; not my opinions.”

Olivia offered him a sad little smile, one that spoke of too many years of being political about who she was.  It reminded him, frustratingly, of Arnie, who’d shared the same expression from time to time all those years ago.  Things might be better, but Olivia’s expression made it painfully clear that _better_ still wasn’t good enough. 

               “What’s your fiancée’s name?”  Steve asked, suddenly curious, wanting to bring some levity to the situation, to have Olivia think of something good.    

               “Violet,” Olivia said, seemingly startled by the question.  She laughed.  “She’s a World War II history buff, actually.  She’s pretty jealous I get to work with you.   The Howling Commandos are her favourites.”

Steve’s heart clenched at that, and he knew it showed on his face for the way that Olivia immediately looked like she wanted to take back what she’d said.  Steve forced his face into a smile, but he doubted it did a very good job of disguising the hurt. 

               “Yeah, they’re my favourites, too,” Steve said.  “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing at the door to the press hall.  Olivia nodded, glad for the out. 

 

\---

 

Steve began the conference with a description of the crime, carefully leaving out the names of the victims.  Olivia had secured copies of the drawings he’d done for the police, and he implored the public to contact the tip line if they recognized any of the men.  If Steve had had his choice, the conference would have ended there, but the floor was opened for questions and the circus began. 

               “Captain Rogers!” called one reporter, and the media wrangler pointed at her to indicate she should continue.  “New York Times.  Why didn’t you capture the men responsible?  You ARE a super soldier, surely you could have handled three thugs.”

               “My primary concern was to make sure that the men assaulted were alright, not to seek retribution,” said Steve with relief, thinking that maybe the questions wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

He was wrong, of course. 

               “Assaults like this were common in your day,” said one reporter from CNN, more of a statement than a question. 

               “They were,” agreed Steve, in an authoritative voice.  “They were terrible then and they’re terrible now.  At least today it seems like there’s a chance that the attackers will be brought to justice.” 

               “Did you know it was a gay bashing when you intervened?” asked a weasel-y looking man who didn’t state his affiliation. 

               “No, I only saw two men in trouble and went to help.” 

               “Would you have intervened, had you known?” the man persisted, and Steve glared at him. 

               “Of course,” said Steve without hesitation.  “No one deserves to be beaten up in a back alley.”

               “Captain Rogers, some would say that there has been a moral decline in our culture since your day, and that the proliferation of homosexuality is partially to blame for that.  Would you care to comment on that?”  Steve frowned slightly - this was exactly the sort of question Olivia had instructed him to avoid.  Yet the smoothly spoken venom with which it was asked raised his hackles, and he had to bite back the confrontational reaction he wanted to give.  

                “I was asked not to give my personal opinions on these matters,” Steve began, and he felt the crowd of reporters shuffle with disappointment and a willingness to read their own beliefs on Steve’s views into his encroaching non-answer.  “So I’d like to formally note that the views I’m about to express are my own and not affiliated with SHIELD,” Steve continued and the crowd surged with anticipation.  

               “I didn’t know until last night that homosexuality wasn’t illegal anymore,” Steve continued.  “For me, it was 1945 barely a month ago, and no one bothered to tell me.  It isn’t exactly the sort of thing anyone talked about openly, so I never asked.  Honestly, being up here just talking about it is nerve wracking,” he added, trying to quell the butterflies in his stomach as big as those he’d had on his first war bonds show.  There was a smattering of nervous laughter from the audience, though he could tell they were waiting for him to get to the point.  It was harder than he thought, but he wasn’t the sort to back down from something once he’d made the decision to do it.  “I knew soldiers, good ones, who were given a blue discharge and sent home for who they were and more men who would have been had they been discovered,” Steve said, thinking of Arnie in his Navy uniform when they’d encountered each other again in 1944, of how he’d joined up before even Bucky.  “I know-- _knew_ people, friends, whose lives would have been better if they hadn’t had to hide who they were.  So no, I don’t think there’s been a moral decline.  I think this is a good thing.   But this isn’t about me,” Steve said over a sudden uproar from the crowd.  “This is about finding the people who assaulted two men last night.”  The reporters didn’t seem to hear him, though, suddenly clamouring for answers loudly enough that the individual questions were lost in a crush of noise.  Olivia strode out on the stage, her heels clicking as went.  Moving Steve aside to take the podium, she stood on her tip toes to reach the microphone.  

               “Thank you, no more questions,” she told the crowd, and ushered Steve away hastily, the reporters still begging questions as they pushed through the door and out of the press hall.  Once out of the line of fire, Steve ran a hand over his face.  

               “I messed that up,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.  

               “Kinda,” Olivia agreed.

               “All anyone is going to talk about are my opinions,” muttered Steve.  “No one’s going to care about catching those guys.”  

               “If it’s any consolation, that was going to happen even if you hadn’t done what you just did,” Olivia said with a wry smile.  Steve could only smile sadly in return.   “Everyone is going to be pleading for interviews in the next little while.  Do you want--”

               “No interviews,” Steve cut her off.  “Sorry.  I didn’t even want to do that,” he added, waving a hand at the door they’d just escaped through.  “Can I go?”

               “Yeah,” Olivia said, then hesitated.  “Hey Steve?”  She waited until Steve turned from where he was halfway out the room to give her his full attention.  “What you did there was dumb as rocks and no one’s gonna stop asking you about it any time soon.  But it’s going to mean a lot to a lot of people.”

Steve only nodded mutely, not telling her that if he’d been braver, it might have meant more.  He ducked his head and left the SHIELD facility without another word.  

 

\---

 

    Steve shut himself in his apartment and closed the blinds as soon as he got home.  He didn’t think anyone from the media knew where he lived, but he didn’t want to risk it.  He unplugged his landline, muted his cell.  It was childish, maybe, but he just wanted to be alone.  He didn’t want anyone asking his opinion like it mattered, especially when he still felt like a stranger here, unfamiliar with the new ways the world worked.  More than that, though, he wanted time alone with his thoughts.  Or maybe he wanted to escape from them.  Confronted with a reality that was so different from what he knew, a part of his mind that that he’d managed to keep quiet - _almost_ \- was suddenly overpoweringly loud.   _What ifs_ and _What could have beens_ and _What nows_ rattled around at a speed that made Steve dizzy.  

He didn’t want to think about this.

He didn’t want to think about any of it, especially not when the only reason that it might have mattered was--

_\--gone in a rush of cold air and shattering metal, falling like a ragdoll with a scream on his lips, and alive, still alive when Steve looked away because he couldn’t stand to see him hit the ground and break and die and lose him more than he already had, and the train carried on as though his world hadn’t ended with a body hitting the ice that Steve hadn’t seen but knew happened anyway, his own body stubbornly continuing to function even though his heart had collapsed in on itself, his mind’s eye showing him nothing but Bucky silhouetted against the white backdrop as he fell and some part of Steve knew that he should die in the ice  too and he almost let go and followed then, almost--_

Steve was shaking and curled against the couch when he pulled himself from the flashback, his cheeks wet with tears he must have shed.  He focused on a voice in his head, one that told him to breathe, just breathe, _it sounded like Bucky, he must have said it a thousand times_ , and worked to steady himself, counting his breaths to slow them, forcing himself to push the memories down, to lock them within himself.  

When he’d evened his breathing and stilled the tremoring of his body, he didn’t move from his position on the floor, knees pulled to his chest like a child.  He only reached for his sketchbook on the coffee table and turned to a blank page.  It was a small comfort to put pencil to paper, but a comfort nonetheless.  He sketched for hours, letting himself get lost in the familiar feel of the graphite lines flowing as his hand moved over the page.  Drawing had always been a lifeline for him, something he could do to forget about the ways that his body betrayed him, and later, something he could do when the war became overwhelming.  If he had nothing else left, he at least still had this.  

 

 ---

 

The sun was setting by the time Steve put down his pencil, returning from the haze he’d slipped into while he drew.   He’d filled dozens of pages without really paying attention to what he was drawing.  Familiar faces covered the paper - Peggy and the Commandos, Arnie, Howard, and _Bucky, Bucky, Bucky_.  

               “Dammit Buck,” Steve whispered, running his thumb over one of the drawings.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://greekamazon.tumblr.com)


End file.
